


Tumblr shorts

by wfg



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Drugs, Episode: s04e01 The Six Thatchers, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Gen, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Retirementlock, Sad, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-04-11 05:41:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4423553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wfg/pseuds/wfg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of the ficlets that I originally published on my blog: http://waitingforgarridebs.tumblr.com<br/>- Tags will be updated when I add more stories!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Sherlock" Means "Silver Curl"

“John! What is that?”

Putting down the book he had been reading in his chair and looking slightly over the edges of the reading glasses he had had to buy some years ago already, John raised his brows so that his forehead crinkled visibly and examined the seemingly empty palm of Sherlock’s right hand. It took some moments until he recognised what looked like a little colourless, curved thread and chuckled before tended to his book again.

“That… is a hair.”

And yes, he would enjoy every second of this.

Sherlock looked appalled facing the unbelievable disinterest he had to deal with now, “Look, really look! That’s not just  _a_  hair. That’s  _my_  hair.”

Trying not to burst into laughter – this was just too good – John cast a quick look upwards and added in a casual tone, “Yeah, and you still got plenty of them up there, so what’s the point?”

Sherlock huffed audibly and pattered around on the spot next to John’s chair where he had been standing since he had thudded out of their bathroom. Not even trying to hide his temper, he pointed out what he thought was far too obvious and that he had to do this annoyed him even more than the original fact.

“It’s grey.”

John pouted in an attempt to hide his bemusement, still looking into his book, but having stopped reading too long ago, “So what?”

“Did you not hear what I said?  _It’s grey_.”

“So. What.” Finally he closed his book and faced the detective, “Sherlock, why is this such a big deal, I’ve head grey hair for years now and you never seemed to bother.”

“Yeah, but that’s you, you’ve always had this sort-of grey-ish copper colour, but my hair is black. Black, John. Everone will–”

“What? What will everyone do? Since when do you care about ‘everyone’?”

Sherlock swallowed hard and drew breath as if to answer, but couldn’t bring himself to it. And John knew perfectly fine why. This wasn’t about “everyone”, it was because Sherlock Holmes was not-so-very-secretly terribly vain.

Obviously not finding the support he had hoped for, Sherlock trudged away, heading towards the kitchen, mumbling something like, “I’m buying hair dye tomorrow…”

Time to release the poor man from his pain.

Turning over in his chair, John made an attempt to soothe his sulking significant other, “Sherlock. Come on. That’s not the end of the world. That’s just how things go. Look at Greg, this man has had grey hair on the top of his head for decades now, did you ever see him complain? I’m sure the silver fox look will look good on you.”

Sherlock stopped in the middle of his movement and faltered. That was not the reaction John had expected, what had he said now?

Finally Sherlock turned around.

“What makes you think I’m talking about  _that_  hair?”


	2. Caring Is Not An Advantage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr [here](http://waitingforgarridebs.tumblr.com/post/130410312761/johnnlocked-this-is-mostly-your-fault-and).
> 
> Inspired by [this post](http://waitingforgarridebs.tumblr.com/post/130409312536/sussexbound-johnnlocked) that got a bit out of hand... #tw character death

“Tell him, would you? Tell John.”

“Tell him _what_? … And don’t you dare sounding like you’re saying goodbye, Mycroft, listen, you won’t-”

But Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to say the word, to finish the sentence, so he ended up with a hiccoughing sob. He didn’t know when exactly he had started to cry, but the painfully peaceful expression on Mycroft’s face didn’t make the attempts of stoppping it any less futile. 

Sherlock pressed his scarf against the stab wound in Mycroft’s stomach harder now, but the bleeding wouldn’t stop, why wouldn’t it stop…

“… die? Oh Sherlock, don’t be stupid, even you should be able to-”

“Shut up,” Sherlock gritted through his teeth, unable to stop the tears from falling. No time for snarky remarks, no time for patronising superiority, just a little bit longer, just a little, the ambulance was already on its way, just… Mycroft would make it, he had to make it, this was Mycroft, for God’s sake, they just needed to hold through a little longer, then everything-

“Sherlock, stop.”

Caught in the act, Sherlock’s thoughts suddently hushed and he looked at his brother with a frown on his face.

Mycroft tried to keep his Holmesian facade, tried not to show that he was in pain, that he was dying, but the sweat on his skin, the colour fading from his face and the heavy, but shallow breathing suggested otherwise.

“I told you,” he muttered breathlessly. “Caring is not an advantage.” 

There was nothing patronising in his voice anymore.

Defeat.

Sherlock was physically unable to reply to that, doomed to watch Mycroft’s face contort in pain and his vigours fade at the same time.

“Who taught you that, by the way?” Mycroft’s gaze momentarily flickered towards his abdomen and the blood-soaked scarf. Sherlock didn’t even know what to think about this sudden dawn of chit-chatting tone and couldn’t help the desperate laugh that escaped him and the hint of a smile that concurred with thinking about John.

Mycroft didn’t need to hear the answer. He noticed.

“Oh… thought as much.” His voice was calm. Too calm. “He’s a good man, Sherlock. And so are you.”

“No, I’m not,” escaped Sherlock’s mouth before he could stop it. He didn’t want to quarrel, not now… 

“You’re trying, that is all it needs.” 

Slowly, but determined and - for his situation - with astonishing strength, Mycroft took Sherlock’s hands and thereby relieved the pressure on his wound, then brought them closer to his chest and Sherlock, so terribly baffled by this irrational behaviour, acted even more stupid and just let him, unable to come up with any of the numerous reasons there were for this being an idea with terrible, even more, fatal consequences.

“Now, listen to me,” Mycroft blighted any attempt of objection on Sherlock’s part.

“I told you, caring is not an advantage, Sherlock. Caring is irrational, imbecile and foolish. Caring hurts.” As if on commando, Mycroft drew a sharp breath and hissed in pain, but stopped Sherlock who immediately wanted to attend to his wound again by grabbing his blood-stained hand anew.

“But not caring… A life without caring… is boring. Bland. Coward. And, most of all, a lie you keep telling yourself.”

Mycroft’s hand, which was still clutching Sherlock’s, started to tremble.

“So, Sherlock, please… tell him, would you?”

And his hand went limp.


	3. For Real, This Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted and inspired by [this post](http://waitingforgarridebs.tumblr.com/post/130913300246/tell-her-youre-in-love-with-her-and-always-have), tl;dr:
> 
> Except Sherlock never has been dead. I mean, of course they don’t go there, but imagine how fucked up it would be if any time Sherlock really died. [...] Imagine Sherlock realises that there is no way out, “your friends will die if you don’t”, and he accepts it, if this is the only way John can be save so be it, Sherlock is fine with it and…

It was late at night and Molly had just finished her shift at St Bart’s. Nothing really particular planned for tonight, she was just about to go home to watch some crap telly together with Toby – the cat, Toby, it’s not like she was really up to a new relationship after that disaster with Tom any time soon… 

She had just switched off the lights and was about to walk through the door as a far too familiar feeling creeped up her neck, and she didn’t even have to turn and look to know what was causing it.

“Sherlock… why are you here?”

Sherlock Holmes at St Bart’s, this hasn’t been a frequent combination lately. Not after he had come back. Molly always had tried to push aside the thoughts that maybe this had to do something with her, or their – in lack of a better word – difficult relationship. They were friends, yes, close, but not in a seeing-each-other-every-day-way or in a knowing-what-the-other-one-is-up-to-at-this-very-moment-way. Close in a if-you-need-someone-I’m-there-for-you-way, and it wouldn’t matter if they had spoken to each other for the last time yesterday or half a year ago. Unconditional trust. And this was very mutual.

But Sherlock Holmes showing up at Bart’s, unannounced, in the middle of the night, and obviously only waiting for her shift to end, awoke unpleasant memories in Molly she tried to push aside with a frown. She turned around, knowing that Sherlock was there, but unable to make out his features yet in the almost pitch-black room.

“Molly,” She heard a very faint voice saying as Sherlock started to approach her, stepping into the light cone cast by the lamps in the hall outside the door, “I think I’m going to die.”

Molly couldn’t help herself and puffed a laugh in disbelief, “Sherlock, that’s not funny… what’s going on?”

But as soon as he had come close enough so his face was in the dark no more, she startled at her own joke. As familiar as this situation was to her, she now was stricken by the expression on Sherlock’s face, not pleading, not fearful, not even scared to death or showing signs of the big brain behind it working on some clever masterplan.

Calm. Quiet. Peaceful. But still, bearing a certain melancholy.

Defeated. 

No, that could not be it, Sherlock must have a plan, Sherlock always had a plan, that’s why he’d come, hadn’t he? He needed Molly’s help with something, again, so the next words almost poured out of her mouth automatically. 

“What do you need?”

She could see the gulp forming in Sherlock’s throat, he bit his lip, pondered for a moment, but only to buy himself some time, to steel himself for what he surely had practised to say over and over again before he even came to her.

Her straightforward offer was nothing he hadn’t expected, still, her unquestioning willingness to help overwhelmed him for a moment.

“I… apologise that I have to ask this of you. But it is important. And I hope you will agree to do it.”

“Okay…? I just don’t have any spare corpses at the moment, if that’s what you–”

Sherlock hissed a laugh, but couldn’t bear to look her in the eye, “No, it’s not that… listen,” He wagered every word as he continued, “After I… died. I need you to do the autopsy. I need you to prove in any way possible that I am dead, that it is really me and that I won’t come back, this time.”

It wasn’t that Molly wasn’t clever, but this was something her brain wasn’t quite able to process.

“So… you want me to do that for a _fake_ body?”

“No, it will be me.”

The determination and ultimacy in his voice made Molly’s stomach cringe. Trying to gulp away the tears dwelling in her eyes as the realisation finally came through, her denial tried to reason with the man in front of her. 

“But Sherlock… no, that’s not, you can’t– what about John?”

Sherlock threw a quick glance at her and then looked away again, the mentioning of John’s name in this context too painful for him to bear, but apparently just to the point. He took a deep breath.

“That is… _why_ I want you to do this. After the last time, I mean… He won’t believe it. He won’t believe I really died this time. He will come looking for me, he won’t stop searching, but there will be nothing to find, and it will kill him. So, Molly, please…” And his voice almost broke at this point, “Tell him. Show him. Do whatever it takes to make him believe that I died, for real, this time.”

Molly’s eyes starting to water, her lips were trembling, so she bit them and just nodded obediently.

Sherlock almost mirrored her actions, gave her a quick nod, took breath as if he wanted to add something but mid-thought decided not to do it and without any further word headed out of the room, passing by Molly on his way.

The thoughts in her mind were spinning, that could not be it, this couldn’t be–

“Sherlock!?”

Molly spun around to see that Sherlock had stopped in the hall. 

She knew it would be useless trying to reason with him, trying to talk him out of anything he had figured would be the right thing to do. She knew there was nothing she could say to change his mind now, but she wanted to, she needed to, there had to be something she could do to stop this happening.

But there was nothing.

The seconds passed and she wasn’t able to utter a single word to convince him this was a bad idea, to persuade him that there had to be another way, to beg him for his own life.

And Sherlock would have an explanation for all of them. Excuses, which would only make her furious and still would change nothing about the outcome.

And they both knew that.

Almost smiling at this unspoken conversation, Sherlock didn’t turn to utter the following words.

“Goodbye, Molly Hooper.”

And he headed through the door at the other end of the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be sure to check out [jenna221b's addition](http://jenna221b.tumblr.com/post/125256057150/but-imagine-if-they-do-go-down-the-route-of) to this.


	4. The Lying Detective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr [here](http://waitingforgarridebs.tumblr.com/post/153477684101/could-they-all-simply-just-stop-sherlock).
> 
> This is what happens when you take the title of the episode a bit too literally...

Could they all simply just… stop?

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation, while supporting himself heavily with his shoulder against the door frame separating the living room and the kitchen of 221b.

He was sweating, only lightly, but still visibly. This cold kind of sweat, which usually goes along with vertigo, nausea, and this feeling-the-way-that-you-currently-look-like. Sherlock knew he had to be quite pale, his sunken cheeks disguised by his some-day-old beard, but considering that he had to lean against a piece of wood to keep himself from swaying, he knew that there was no way to fool John into thinking that he was _fine_. 

John - standing away from him far enough to not intrude into Sherlock’s personal space, but being close and foremost ready enough to step forward should Sherlock lose either balance or consciousness.

But why did John care, why should he, they were having an argument, one of the worst they had ever had, an argument which reminded Sherlock of a nightmare he once had, only was it so much worse to actually see John finally speaking his mind about it. 

Especially, because this time it wasn’t about the drugs. Sherlock was not high, Sherlock of all people would know when he was high. And drugs didn’t make him feel so miserable, at least since he had learned how to use them; drugs didn’t make him _feel_ pain. They took the pain away.

Sherlock knew he’d been poisoned. He also knew that it was Culverton Smith who had poisoned him. And under no circumstances John could know about this, not at this moment, not with what was at stake. 

So, somehow Sherlock couldn’t even blame John for assuming he’d gotten himself onto another trip. There was no other way to interpret the signs, with this one vital piece of information missing, and deep down Sherlock had known that everyone would assume that this was what’s wrong with him.

Always the addict.

Would anyone even have believed him if he had told them the truth?

“I am not going to ask you if you wrote a list, Sherlock. Just tell me what you’ve taken, and then we’ll decide if we’ll get you to a hospital or not.”

Was it the pain in his stomach slowly clouding his mind, or the fact that John deliberately deviated from the Holmesian way of handling these sort of things, but Sherlock couldn’t keep himself from snarling dismissively, “ _Of course_ , I didn’t write a list…”

Meaning to say, I didn’t take any drugs to get high. 

But conveying the meaning, why do you think I’d tell _you_ what I’ve taken.

John shifted his jaw and didn’t even bother trying to hide his twitching left hand, when he suddenly took some steps forward and Sherlock even expected him to seize him by his collar for a moment, this was how angry he suddenly seemed to be, but John caught himself half-motion and stopped in his tracks.

“Sherlock, I…” 

He was breathing heavily, and the look on his face was nothing like Sherlock had ever seen before, torn between so many different emotions at once that Sherlock had no means of telling what John would possibly say next - and judging from the ever-growing silence that followed, John didn’t know either; but it wasn’t like Sherlock hadn’t already heard them all. 

The accusations. The “why”s. The sermons about the side effects and what drugs would do to his oh-so-admirable brain. What a waste of his gift this was. What a failure he was.

What a stupid little boy. 

Such a disappointment.

“What are you, my mother?” 

It escaped Sherlock almost a bit unwillingly, as he realised when he suddenly felt his stomach drop, but it was too late to take it back now. And, maybe, at least it would make John angry enough to leave and stop asking those questions. It wasn’t like he wouldn't leave him anyway, eventually, they all had, and those who had decided to stick around never grew tired of permanently reminding Sherlock that he owed them for doing so. 

But John didn’t budge. He was angry, still, yes, clenching his jaws rather forcefully at Sherlock’s infantile remark, but somehow he managed to stay remarkably calm when he replied to the question, “No, I’m not,” and then added, not breaking eye-contact for a single moment:

“I am your doctor.”


	5. Gold Or Silver?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr [here](http://waitingforgarridebs.tumblr.com/post/137117693516/johnnlocked-theirglassofteaat221b-sherlock).
> 
> "Sherlock forgets to actually ask John to marry him, and instead just starts planning their wedding."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **[theirglassofteaat221b](http://theirglassofteaat221b.tumblr.com):**  
>  Sherlock forgets to actually ask John to marry him, and instead just starts planning their wedding.
> 
>  **[johnnlocked](http://johnnlocked.tumblr.com):**  
>  Is this not what happened in TSOT?
> 
>  **[waitingforgarridebs](http://waitingforgarridebs.tumblr.com):**  
>  No, because Sherlock planned it “his way”. Mary was probably involved, but didn’t care as well tbh, and John was totally indifferent about it all. So, after Mary is dealt with and John is back in Baker Street for good and they finally have talked (and kissed and done lots of other things, obviously), Sherlock would start to ask question which seem totally random for the uninvolved observer.

As soon as the idea had come across Sherlock's mind, 

He wanted to marry John. And it had to be perfect.

(Sherlock had to try hard not to add something along "not like the last one" in his mind, but that was in fact what he wanted to avoid.)

 

“What is your favourite colour, John?” (for the bridesmaids’ dresses and the groomsmans’ ties), “John, what is your favourite cake?” (because he obviously didn’t like the last one), “What is your favourite song?”, “I’ve composed something and would like to test whether it’s danceable or not, would you mind…?”

It was subtle at first, but John started to grow suspicious, of course. John was pretty damn smart, after all. But it wasn’t until that one lazy Saturday morning, when another of these questions startled John out of his blissful reading the morning papier and his overall tenderly ignoring his partner’s recent and so far unfamiliar weirdness.

“I was wondering,” Sherlock raised his voice over his current experiment and looked up from his microscope, “Is there any place you’re particularly fond of? That you have a good memory of, maybe back when you were a child?” (They needed a venue, after all.)

John frowned and stopped reading, but didn’t put down the paper yet. He pondered for a moment and then decided to tackle the subject straightforwardly. 

“You’ve been asking a lot of questions, lately. What happened to your _powers of deduction_?” He added the last bit with a bit of glee.

“I’d just like to get to know you better, isn’t that what boyfriends do? And how on Earth could I possibly deduce something you never told me?”

“I don’t know, maybe from the mud on my old shoes…”

“John!”

John turned a page, perfectly aware of the fact that they both knew he wasn’t reading anymore, and smirked, “Just teasing… I don’t know if the memories are particularly fond ones, but the few times we went on holiday as kids, we were spending a week or two in one of those seaside cottages down in Sussex.”

Sherlock nodded and filed away this new piece of information almost audibly before tending to his microscope again, while John turned another page of his paper.

“So… what kind of experiment of yours is this then?” John asks almost casually.

“Oh, I’m comparing the drying processes of different kinds of-”

Suddenly folding his paper quite noisily and turning halfway on his chair to cut Sherlock short, John was unable to keep a curious smile from his face, “Not that one, you git. I was talking about your not-so-subtle undertaking of acquiring information about me.”

Sherlock furrowed his brows and looked up from his microscope again, “Is that a bad thing?”

“No, but it’s also not _normal_ dropping random questions like that at all day and night times. May I remind you when you asked me about my favourite kind of roast meat at that crime scene last week?”

“What was wrong about th-”

“It was a wilful fire-raising, Sherlock. Or a fortnight ago, when I cut myself eleven times while shaving because you wouldn’t stop come rushing into the bathroom, because you needed to confirm the exact shade of my favourite colour with these stupid colour fans?”

“ _Stupid_ colour fans? John, there is a difference between-” But Sherlock fell silent as John rose his finger to indicate that he was nowhere near to wanting to have _that_ conversation again.

“Sherlock, what is this recent obsession about?”

Biting away the smile about ‘recent’, Sherlock tried to play it down and averted his gaze to look on his slide again, “It’s… nothing. I just need- err, _want_ to know.”

“Hold on, what do you mean, you _need_ to know?”

“I just mispoke and corrected myself,” Sherlock tried to deflect the topic at first, but at this point he knew John far too well to misinterpret the disbelieving silence which followed his almost blatant lie differently than that John would not end this conversation without having been given a satisfying answer.

So Sherlock pondered for a moment, pretending to study his specimen and fumbling with the wheels of his microscope, before he finally realised that it was time.

“Gold or silver?” He mumbled against his slide, and John could as well have ignored it as one of Sherlock’s soliloquising remarks while working, if it wasn’t for the conversation they were having at this moment - which didn’t necessarily imply that the context of this random question was clear to John right away.

“Sorry?”

“I said, ‘Gold or silver?’ I know you don’t have too many accessoires to begin with, let alone jewelry, and I know the few rings and necklaces you already have are gold, but I was wondering if you really _liked_ this metal, since they all have been gifts of one way or another. There are also nice pieces with mixed materials or platinum you might want to consider, if you’re up to trying something new.”

John’s face went through several phases of processing this question before he stammered, “Yeah, I… Seriously, I don’t know, Sherlock, I never thought about- Hold on, why would you buy me… _jewelry_?” He emphasised the last word as if he could not believe he actually had to use this one of all words in this context, while trying to suppress the presentimental, fluttery feeling which suddenly rose in his stomach for apparently no reason, because why would using this word in a conversation with Sherlock Holmes cause such an inexplicable-

Oh.

John looked back at Sherlock in utter disbelief, searching for confirmation of his suspicion in those marvellous eyes and couldn’t miss the blushing in Sherlock’s face - this time. 

“Sherlock! Are you asking me-”

“Just… answer the question.”

 _Don’t spoil it now, John, I wanted to make this perfect and you weren’t supposed to find out that soon._  

John drew breath sharply, almost as if to undo the words he was about to say, and nodded.

_I’m sorry. Ask me again._

“Gold or silver?”

_Do you want to marry me?_

“I don’t mind.”

_Anytime._


	6. Dog Lover Mary Watson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr [here](http://waitingforgarridebs.tumblr.com/post/154586530301/221b-sh-waitingforgarridebs-not-a-confirmed) and based on the referenced article in The Guardian and setlock pictures.

**MARY:** _(indignantly)_   _Dog lover_ Mary Watson.

**JOHN:** Everybody gets _one_.

**MARY:** One what?

**JOHN:** Tabloid nickname: ‘Merkel of Maidenhead’; ‘Cheeto Hitler’. Shouldn’t worry –

**JOHN:** _(with a look of sudden realisation and - is it fear? - on his face)_ ... _I_ should probably get a new one soon.

**SHERLOCK:** _(not looking up from his phone, with which he had been fiddling with since he had arrived here)_ Website of The Guardian, section “culture”, first article, seventh paragraph.

_(John takes out his own phone to look it up.)_

**MARY:** _(sulkily)_ It’s not even like I am a dog person...

**SHERLOCK:** _(clearly distracted by the research on his phone)_  Why is it always a bust of Thatcher?

**JOHN:** _(looking at the article)_  “ _Husband_ John Watson”?

**MARY:** Who even took this bloody picture of me and that dog, I can’t have just one day off with you two, can I?

**SHERLOCK:** What sort of bust is this anyway?

**JOHN:** _“Husband”?_ What the hell are they implying?

**MARY:** _(gives him ‘the look’)_  ... Nice.

**SHERLOCK:** _(squinting at his phone while zooming into a picture)_  It’s a very valuable, special edition. Why would someone want to destroy them?

**JOHN:** _(glancing up briefly at Sherlock)_  They voted Labour?  _(He reads more of the article.)_ “Frequently seen in the company of _her husband_ John Watson ...”

**SHERLOCK:** _(huffs)_ Well, I certainly do know why _I’d_ want to destroy-

**JOHN:** _(looking at another part of the article)_  “... _happily married_  to Mary Watson”!

_(Mary intensifies ‘the look’.)_

**SHERLOCK:** ... a bust of that ruthless, people-eating, homoph-

_(Sherlock breaks off, realising what he had been about to say, but Mary’s head already snapped into his direction - she heard - and she raises both her eyebrows at him, unable to hide the amusement about this almost-slip from her face.)_

**JOHN:** _(his attention still focussed on that article)_ Okay, this is too much. We-

_(John realises that Sherlock and Mary are having a moment.)_

**JOHN:** _(warily)_ Did I miss something?

**SHERLOCK and MARY:** _(simultaneously, breaking eye contact immediately)_  No, nothing.


End file.
